


i can see a lot of life in you

by skywalkwithme



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/F, Period-Typical Sexism, frodo is sad and sam is trying, mid 1850s ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 10:01:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17201408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skywalkwithme/pseuds/skywalkwithme
Summary: Needed: a Lady's Maid, for a girl of delicate constitution, loyal and dutiful, of good morals. 1 pound fifty every month, Sunday mornings off. Two references, ask at Baggins House.





	i can see a lot of life in you

**Author's Note:**

> title is from That Dress Looks Nice on You by Sufjan Stevens. A lot of this is based on the Handmaiden, by Park-Chan Wook, and the novel Fingersmith, and also my copy of Consuming Passions by Judith Flanders that I just read and I wanted to write something Victorian for fun.

Clang.

The iron gate swung sharply back, and Sam jumped.  
The coachman had left her at the servant's gate, and then wheeled off down the lane without so much as a by-your-leave- it was nearing ten and dark as ink, fog blowing off the moors, and she had gathered up her bag, with a change of clothes and her good church frock and half a pasty, and dragged them up the stoop and knocked. Sam squinted up at the house- it was made of great slabs of white cut stone, going up and up into the night, and the door she waited by was like a mousehole. The door creaked open, revealing nothing, and she peered into the thick darkness of the open door- was that a figure, there-

"You'll be the new 'andmaid." said the darkness.

Sam spooked."Er. Yes."

"Was expecting you this afternoon."

"Train was cancelled-" she stuttered.

"Bentham! Get the light on!" 

There was an assenting grunt from inside, and the hall came into dim, brownish being. She could see now, two figures- a short woman, holding the door, and who she supposed was Bentham, behind her, holding one weakly guttering candle. The woman was in rough woolens, her hair coming down, and the man in footman's livery, but with only his linen shirt and not his jacket. They had footmen, then- they were better off than she'd thought.

They both seemed disinclined to talk, so Sam went first.

"Ah, hello. Samantha Gamgee, at your service."

"We knows your name." says the woman. "Colborn." It takes Sam a second to realize she's referring to herself. "Getcher things, come on in then." Bentham hands her the candle and retreats into the night.

Colborn leads her down a snaking, narrow passageway- Sam can touch both the sides at the same time, and fancies if she stood on tiptoe she could tap the ceiling with her head. She's short herself, and wonders if that's why they hired her- if they need short girls to navigate the halls. Then she snaps back- Colborn has been rattling off instructions.

"Next doorway on your left"- they brush past it and it's gone- "goes down to the laundry, her linens go there every day at nine after she's awoken and bathed, down the passage from there is the kitchen, can go down for a bedpan or order hot water for a bath, she bathes thrice a month, chamberpots go there, up ahead is the door for the butler but only if it's an emergency, we're just passing the housekeepers', her name is Grantham, you'll report to her-"

She reaches a twisting staircase and begins heaving up it, and Sam follows, still shunting her bags.

"You'll help her wash and dress, of course, dust when she's out, tidy her things, accompany her on walks. Her routine is simple- she wakes at six, washes, breakfasts with the Lady, watercolours or pianoforte, Latin, luncheon, then a walk, a rest, then dress her for dinner, put her to bed when she's back, sleep at nine."

Colborn turns around abruptly, halting Sam. She scowls down at her.

"The Miss is delicate, understand. A weak heart. She canna be excited nor troubled. She must be gentled. Ay?"

Sam bobs. "Aye."

Colborn turns around and continues her march, up and up and up in circles. "Watercolours, sketching, reading, but no novels. Nothing arousing. No running, no exertion, walks only, carry her things. Keep her warm, keep them windows always shut, a good hot fire. No cold foods, nothing too strong-tasting. Not too many vegetables. Here we are."

Colborn unlocks a door and leads Sam through into another hall. It's much less narrow- wide, high-ceilinged, a smooth wooden floor gleaming in the light of the candle. She can see murky portraits in oils marching down the wall.

She points, with a thin finger, to one door of deep-coloured wood. "Miss Frodo is in here." And she points to another, smaller door across from it. "And you."

The room is small enough to be only a cot, made up in wool blankets, and shelf. Sam pushes her bags in under and sits on the bed. It's hard.

Colborn stands in the doorway, her round face lit from below. "Five thirty, Gamgee. I'll show you where to find hot water and coals and shoeblack but after you must do it yerself. Good night."

The door slams and Sam is alone in her closet.

As she unties her shoes and strips off her leggings and bodice, she tries to run over all Colborn had told her- bedpan, water, chamber pot? No novels- but finds it impossible. So she decides to worry instead about awaking at the right time- no windows here, how will she know when the sun's at five?

"in't much like me old Gaffer's, that's for sure." Sam whispers to the close, warm dark of her room. She hoped Frodo was kind. She'd heard all kinds of stories- mistresses who beat their maids, worked them day and night, accused them of stealing. Jenny Hasslings had come home all in tears after a month with a mistress who had her up every night cleaning out the chimney. Sam didn't know if she had the constitution of a maid, either- she wanted to be a cook, but there wasn't any openings. Maids were pretty, with soft brown curls and rosebud lips, and Sam was short with big hands and feet and all red and ruddy. She hoped Miss wouldn't be cruel. Well, she'd meet her on the morrow and see how things fell.

As it turned out, Sam met Miss much earlier than she meant to.

She stirred awake, at first unsure what had woken her. It was still dark. She grumbled and sat up, hunched under the low ceiling, wondering-

There was a soft cry.

Sam froze. 

She waited. Was it- a bird? A baby? She sat silently, and for so long she almost thought she'd imagine it, until she heard it again.

Broken, keening, high- and definitely human. And, unless Sam was out her nut, coming from the Miss's room. 

Sam slipped out of bed and eased her door open. The hall was empty and silent, blue in the night. She eased across, the floor smooth under her bare feet. She pressed her hand to the Miss's door.

And there it was again. Gentle, and- it sounded almost like "mother".

Sam didn't know what to do. She was her Miss, it was her duty to comfort and gentle her, and that would include nightmares, wouldn't it? But she'd never even met the woman, and it was a fair strange way to meet your maid, in the middle of the night. So perhaps better not to.

But then the cry came again, and Sam knew she could not just leave her in distress. 

She squared her shoulders and opened the door. At the far end, in a vast, palatial bed spangled with cushions and throws, there lay a small, dark figure, hunched and seizing. "Mother!" she said.

Sam hurried across the room and clambered up on the great mattress. "Miss!" she said, shaking her shoulder. "Miss, you're having a nightmare!"

The girl sobbed, eyes open and unseeing, and Sam grasped both her shoulders. "Miss!"

Finally, she reached her. She heaved in a huge, shaking breath, and blinked. Her eyes were wide, blue and confused.

"You was having a nightmare." Sam said. Miss only looked at her with those bewildered eyes, flat on her bedspread. "I'm Samantha Gamgee, your new handmaid." She paused. "I'm terrible sorry, miss- I shouldn't have intruded-"

"No-" said Miss, barely more than a breath. "No, thank you." She breathes in and sits up. Sam shifts back. There's a glass of water on her bedstand, and she passes it to her. 

"Thank you." Frodo says, and drinks deeply. Her face is narrow, with a straight, pointed nose, and those round, angelic eyes, blue as cornflowers. She's striking, Sam can't deny that- she has pale, pale skin like cream, smooth and unmarred, and curling black hair and straight black brows, and long, downy eyelashes lying across her pale cheeks like rushes across a bank. Her lips are soft and a deep red, a small mouth, delicate like the kind Sam has always wanted, and her hands are slim. When the Gaffer told her she'd serve a lady, Sam- well, Sam had never imagined her so pretty.

"What did you say your name was?" Her face is still troubled.

"Samantha Gamgee." she says. "Always been called Sam though."

"Right." Frodo smiles weakly. "Sam then." Her eyes meet Sam's, and a flower blooms in the pit of Sam's stomach. Sam had always wished to have blue eyes like that.

Sam shifts on the mattress. There's a silence forming, and she doesn't know if it's a bad one, but she breaks it with chatter  
before it solidifies. "Used to get all kinds of night terrors too. When wee Rosie, my sister, was a babe,she'd wake up all hours."

"Yes." Frodo looks at her hands. "Shouldn't complain, of course-"

Sam's stomach sinks. "No- that en't what I meant- I meant, like, it isn't too much unusual-"

"No, of course." 

"If you want to talk, I-"

"No." says Frodo sharply. She breathes softly. "I'm sorry."

"Don't 'ave to apologize, Miss." Sam says.

Frodo's thin, white hands twist. Sam itches, a little.

She heaves up. "I'll be out of your hair, then, Miss, if there's anythin'-"

Frodo clutches at her wrist with one hand. Sam looks down at it. 

"Can you- would you stay?" Frodo breathes.

"Of course." Frodo's hand is hot in her own. 

So they settle down, Sam at one edge of the bed at Frodo at the other. Frodo seems like she's going to say something, but then she only lies down and rolls over. 

Sam stares at her back, clothed in white lace and anonymous and unrevealing. She wanted desperately to know what it was Miss Frodo had dreamt about. Miss Frodo's frame is relaxed- she's asleep. Sam wishes she would turn around so she could see her face. She studies her shoulder blades, her gentle weight, but they're frustrating in their silence. So Sam finds her mind settling back on the touch of Frodo's hand, the red stamp of her mouth, moving back over them again and again until they've worn grooves in her mind.

This will be a strange job, she thinks as she slides into sleep.


End file.
